EPT(CLICK HERE FOR THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER)
This my story. I am an ex-software developer who left the Computer Industry and joined the Security Forces (in the country South Africa). Initially I worked in a small town, near the mines and farming lands. At the beginning of 2023 I returned back to my home city Cape Town. It was here that I was offered a job working in the African Township, doing armed escort for liquor trucks. The story here describes my return to Cape Town city, and my account of what I experienced in the African Township. Its significance becomes clearer when you understand that less than 1% of the non-african population or the inhabitants of Cape Town haven't even entered the Township before, because they all remain within the Inner City and outskirt regions. I was paid by a man in Texas to produce this story, and now am releasing it online for the interests of any audience willing to know it. Images taken on my cellphone also feature.
PS: Here are links to photos
https://ibb.co/GFYQ1XH
https://ibb.co/9y0RzQJ
https://ibb.co/Jmhn26R
CHAPTER 3 - THE NEXT DAY AND BEYOND
The second day arose, and like the rest to come was accompanied by the usual of getting prepped and ready with a coffee; sometimes scoffing down a quick cereal breakfast. Such would encompass the routine that'd fill the next 25 days to come, marking the first successful month done all the way to the end. Nothing noticeably episodic happened during this time other than getting familiar with everything: The procedures, the people, and the truck routes. I arrived at the armoury and got equipped; signing for the firearm and radio, donning the armour, and attaching the holster to my belt. Incidentally, on the second day I was assigned alongside another partner since Kelly was absent. This one was a coloured guy by the name of Joshua; He looked moderately fit with a build looking an accomplice of Rambo. He was quiet and said almost nothing to trigger any interesting dialogue. In truth I suspected he felt a class rift between us impossible to bridge, and pointless to try. He had actually been shot before during a Cash-in-transit heist by a fuel station. His credentials were staunch with a working background better than most. I’d hear later he’d had formal Tactical Training which comprised an advanced driving course – the latter being a thing so prestigious, some men actually lied about having it during small talk to bolster their bluff of a dangerous image. So it was that this single exposure to someone else, whose driving skills were up to scratch, really helped dispel the horrific impression suffered under Kelly - It's an absolute pleasure to operate in a vehicle handled by someone who knows how to drive.
So we set out from the office and arrived within the confines of the Distribution Center. The vehicle parked in its usual spot beyond the entrance of the WiFi business; the men liked to situate themselves there to get free signal. The season was still midwinter and thus cold and partly cloudy; I exited the vehicle and walked to this square of grass that fell alongside the Eastern side of the wall. It was next to a metal fence shielding some power unit and radio tower. The outer wall of the complex had a crude measure taken to protect against intruders mounting it - something quite common in the industrial zone: pieces of broken beer bottles cemented onto the wall’s upper surface; something that would probably cut or hinder anyone trying to get over. On the grass leaning against the corner I discovered a lonesome stone lying there neglected, a thing used for decorum within townhouse complexes. It was one of those hollowed-out stones that could be filled with sand or plants and used to build a wall forming a multitude thereof. It was far away, forgotten, unnoticed and thus undefiled; it accumulated rainwater and so here I came often for a clean source, to rinse my hands and face. At that moment I relieved myself in a corner onto the grass (We were permissibly encouraged to do this willy-nilly on the site grounds since we didn’t have an official restroom other than the The Plaza facilities). The morning sun was beginning to appear, and from that angle, it sliced through the green, brown and yellow flavoured glass pieces on the wall illuminating them. From this perspective, the shards were lit with a coral radiance imbued with a transparency marked against the orange sky beyond; it gave off an aura of green incandescence and frostlike pinkish hue, merely accentuated by the yellow glare of the Sun. One alarming thing about the environment was how nature continued unabated. The birds could always be seen and heard. They'd descend to scavenge some abandoned crust or piece of bone.
Across the plain and industrialized terrain trees stood and were left unmolested. The wind carried through their leaves and across the tarred surface. The wind and air of distant seas was always heard and felt – an occasional phenomena of Cape Town where salted mist was blown from the coast inland. In the township, there was an unmitigated population of stray dogs that survived off scraps and salvaged sustenance. One particular dog that'd situated itself around the gate entrance, whom the Madala and men became accustomed to, made a point of visiting us for hopeful scraps. It was a female; you could see due to the set of oversized teats dangling below her that wobbled in the cold wind. She had the most noble expression on her face comprised of resolute sorrow. It occurred to me that that sad countenance wasn't even connected to any memory of having produced children without choice, that in her warm bosom was found the means of nurturing life, bringing forth young pups onto the Earth, but now she’s doomed by instinct to carry on sustaining herself while Man continues in his stride. It was an expression that had probably suffered many kicks and blows. For it probably needn’t be said, that save for a few once-off odd characters, the African people are by custom brutally cruel to animals. There really was something disturbing about seeing those teats dangling beneath a creature capable of giving birth and reproducing. Its condition in regard to the people around testified to the state of things.
Earlier on I spoke of destruction, which seemed to paint things in a non-specific prolific brushstroke. But those things can well be narrowed down to 2 basic observations seen on these streets: The litter, and the materials used to build their houses. Perhaps a third thing would be the state of the vehicles. Of the latter, these cars and mini-buses were almost certainly localized to the region and probably never left, since no traffic officer would permit them; no upper-class housewife would ignore them.
The majority of the vehicles looked absolutely battered, degraded and non-roadworthy. Such things as scraped-off paint, shattered windows, rust, missing hubcaps, missing number plates, and broken lights. That impression, combined with the driving custom seen in my colleague, painted something nearly apocalyptic – a slow-moving, unthinking machine willingly moving in ignorance to its death. The township gives the impression of a metal machine that’s had bits and pieces torn off, had its inner workings stripped and sold for parts, but still carries on, despite being inefficiently reduced. Such are the feelings sensed when looking at their houses. In fact some of the houses, built in this haphazard fashion purport an unearthly, almost prolific design reaching epic dimensions.
One such place on the road to The Plaza being a perfect example: It stands as a double story, consisting of bicycle wheels, spokes, and bits salvaged from cars and farm equipment. It looked something mutilated; a living structure built out of conventional items. All this could attest to something novel and simply misunderstood if it were not for the impossible amounts of litter flooding the scene; it is utterly insurmountable. Like piled mountains forming thick waves of waste and debris. Most of it takes the form of general waste; wrappers, plastic, and torn containers forming colourful clusters of garbage. It gives you the sensation of corrosive dissolution; unseen bacterial insects crawling over the skin causing efflorescent disease. Amongst the waste, there are no soda-cans, since those are always salvaged and taken to a metal factory for recycling in return for money. I remember long ago in the 90s as a child aged 8, reading on the top surface of a soda these exact words: Do not litter. Keep our country tidy.
The imagery induced within me by these words was hardly an instruction or admonition; it contained desperation. This was around the time being post-new-South-Africa; Mandela had been elected and Windows 95 incipient. Those words embedded on the can always conjured a scene that, despite being easily read and understood, had not the power to impart reason to its consumer. When reading those words I automatically heard the metallic thud of an empty can hitting the pavement surface. When I heard those words I could sense the desperation in the text itself, a dire supplication, coming from an entity, begging the humanoid-ape specimen of man to see reason: Save us! Save us from the blissfully unaware creature called man!
The destruction hereto felt was implied simply through the fact that the scenery simply lacked the cleanliness of urban normality. It was one thing to see broken curbs, untamed grass, ungroomed trees and war-torn roads. Actually it’d be an injustice to say that the roads were neglected and terrible. There were potholes and damaged areas but I had seen more than once actual municipal workers who’d arrived to restore the roads; they were always provided with an escort of course. There were houses that were built on sunken plains that flooded with sewer water that the inhabitants have to siphon and eject onto the road. One of the liquor sites we attended had a broken pipe that constantly leaked a steady puddle of sewerage onto the yard surface. As for me, I’ve possessed this inveterate habit of trusting random water sources despite being murky with debris; I’d take a scoop and rinse my hands and face. On two occasions I did this instinctively, too late realizing the effluent water flavour, which caused me to wretch and convulse. I’ve since then adjusted that habit. There were animals in the township too, clusters of sheep wandering around. I suppose their guide was somewhere nearby for there were certainly more rurally sparse areas that could host these wandering critters. One such believable place was the pass known as Highlands Drive that reached the junction into Swartklip (Black Stone) Road. The route through Highlands drive passed down a straight road with a huge structure on the left comprising some arena; on the right lay an array of downtrodden houses, but eventually the scene dissolved into plains of grass which rose and sunk; all former hint of urban warfare had diminished soundlessly. An uneven countryside presented itself, with lonely houses erected midst trees, shrubs, and a flora of sloping hills. At the junction where Highlands Drive met Swartklip, there stood a square of land containing vast green grass that housed cattle, sheep, and a few horses; the fences appeared to be harshly crude, barbed wire and the structures were typical haphazard shacks. Yet despite the warlike paraphernalia, the clouds allowed a blurred yellow ray of sunlight to strike the trees. They appeared the shape of Marula or Yellowwood and seemed timelessly resolute anent those noiseless critters grazing. The overall scene under the wintry sky looked like a degraded travesty of Britain.
Another critical factor differentiating this region from the generic city, was the economy and pricing. A pair of African ladies who ran their business from a portable trailer, were found along the roadside just beyond the gate. They cooked a number of consumable things on a gas-stove. One of the things on the menu were called Vetkoek (fat cake) which was an oily dough-batter fried into edible balls. The price of one of those was R2. To all those unfamiliar with the weight of South African currency, you cannot understand how affordable this is, especially in the light of present economical decay. And the same lady offered the same substance made with a burger patty and sauce, for a mere R3.
It became viably rewarding for me to buy these things at these prices. Another source of rich nourishment I discovered were those roadside fires: It happened on a wintry Sunday when we were called to the Plaza to man the civil traffic outside the proprietary Cash & Carry liquor store. Our duties were light on a Sunday, for there were few routine escorts and all liquor outlets closed by noon 12:00pm. It was near the month-end and all government grants had been paid out. Resultantly, the locals were getting rowdy and had arrived in numbers unmanageable, thus we left the site and came to handle the people at the door, admitting them in droves of 50 at a time. You’d be surprised how such a concept could trigger sudden bursts of friction amongst the people discontent.
A variety of scenes unfolded midst that. One being a portly girl whose appearance looked well groomed; alongside her friends, she thought that the admittance of another person was an injustice unto her party. Words were thrown around, fingers wagging, chests swelling up with pride, empty threats issued– all this business being delivered and handled with a certain stylized finesse. At some point some unregenerate rube devoid of purpose arrived on the scene, leaning against the opposite wall. He was wearing a woollen cap and issued unmistakable gestures to us, signifying a hand slashing across his throat. This enraged our one coloured guard (Davids) who interpreted the signal clearly; I was not wholly registering what I saw, but before I knew it 4 of us proceeded across to size him up, punching and slapping him randomly. My fist collided with another man’s fist during this scuffle - the only successful impact. He backed away, defensive, irresolute, yet unapologetic; his woollen hat had fallen off during that but he returned 3 minutes later to politely ask it back; we tossed it to him then he cleared off.
4 hours elapsed of this gruelling process, happening before the grey shroud of a winter afternoon; mostly I stood back and simply observed – I couldn’t exactly bring myself to be an active force, to be a presence in a place I felt foreign anent. The rest of the men capably handled everything. The day was subsiding with the evening at hand. The liquor store began closing successfully while we returned to the guard room. Two men had left to purchase something that’d been agreed upon; I was only half paying attention. When they returned they deposited on the wooden table a paper containing a piled wad of pork meat covered in sauce; the men had pooled their money together and purchased a portion of meat from one of those fire women nearby. Also from the cash & carry store they’d bought 2 bottles of sugary soda and a loaf of warm bread, the latter being something they had while I desisted. But of the meat, I extended a hand picking up a piece soaked in sauce and had a taste. It was the most nourishing piece of consumable warmth, layered with salt, spice and delicious marinade. All the pains of the day quickly vanished and the hot flavour diffused through my body. All disparity between us men vanished that day as we feasted within the sanctuary of the guard room.
(below is a photo of that day of the feast)
https://ibb.co/343qWCW
I was not always assigned to liquor escorts and the Plaza. Our company also acquired a contract with tree-cutters who were due monthly to tend trees near the Airstrip. It was on a busy dual-highway that passed many commercial factories. But the trees fell upon a stretch of grass running to parallel another road, marking the boundaries of a slums Coloured Neighbourhood. I was sent to this remote spot a few times; always with a vehicle and partner. There was ample precedence for a security presence. The locals emerged from their houses and scrutinized us greedily, uttering haughty words typical to coloureds known for their derisive pride. Here in this context I’ll take the opportunity to introduce someone relevant to the theme: A man who was actually a long-term childhood friend of the boss. He once worked for the company but quit becoming a Freelancer (contractor). Going by the name Allistar, he was much taller than me with an evenly distributed build. Immediately when seeing and hearing him talk, from his slightly crafty blue eyes to clean-shaven countenance, he reminded me instantly of BBC Sherlock; Viz. Benedict Cumberpatch. Apparently he was highly experienced and highly qualified and had been recruited overseas on long-term excursions. He never said more on this but I could only assume it was something like defending a cruiseship or guarding an oil-rig perhaps. This was the first time encountering someone whose versed background and English command rivalled mine. He did away with the disparate notion that I was a white-collar alien invading the world of Blue-Collar grunts. Overall he was brilliant and hilarious, especially when I said something equivocally poignant! He’d get this appalled look lighting up his blue eyes then give some keen retort in an outraged voice.
Before I continue I’ll quickly introduce someone else. He worked at the office and was perhaps young (though I couldn’t tell) and happened to be a trans-gender African guy. He was short with trimmed hair dyed blonde, wore glasses and had a soothing effeminate lilt when spoken. Mainly he was behind the desk at the armoury, handling admin and signing out the weapons, yet had no scruples of being deployed on the field when time needed. I could tell his administrative work was a reliable glue that kept the office float; He moved with an efficiency and up-to-datedness with reliable subtle skill. He usually drove around in the company Susuki, one of those nippy, pseudo-jeep looking models with a 1000cc engine. Sometimes on his way home in the mornings he’d pull into DC, devoid of company garb and sporting a vivacious set of smooth legs sitting in the front seat. He was cheerful and quite funny but had these efflorescent mood swings over problems. His name was Thobulani, but everyone called him Tubs for short.
Allow me to take a moment aside to thoroughly describe The Plaza, for this place featured often in times to come. The Plaza would be like any other established bastion of commerce and bustle, save for its obvious decrease in theme caused by the rift disparity of the African people. And yet whence originates this theme? Surely they too could have pristine kingdoms devoid of waste, venereal disease, bacterial sludge, and starvation? Surely the leaders of the country seated in parliament live accordingly so. The ladder of politics notwithstanding, you cannot avoid the feeling when entering the plaza that one is looking at a degraded picture – as if you’ve opened an image on a computer screen and decreased its brightness and contrast, then added Saturation and Hue. But the Plaza has everything any civilian wants and needs. A mini-mart, a butchery, a chemist, an ATM, a miscellaneous Chinese shop, a cobbler, a parking lot, etc. In one dark alley I even sited a Doctor venue. It is the customary meme of these niche specialists to always brandish a Red cross on the outer entrance, and the bold words written simply: SURGERY. However these stylized specialists were not unique to the township.
Hundreds of them have their businesses scattered around the city in suburbs conducive thereto. Never have I deigned to investigate the legitimacy of their practice, although it’s unthinkable that the authorities would confer impunity upon them nor could they rightly sustain themselves, if they were unqualified – surely a deficit of uncured patients would build up. Adjacent the doctor was a gambling depot. It was a large cavernous room with the same ambient din as any government chamber: benches, tiled floors, kiosks, telescreens, people queuing holding tickets and waiting, pensioners hanging around expectantly, etc. Next to the betting shop was the cobbler himself and Lo! A Dentist! Surely not! I always thought clean teeth devoid of decay was a gift from above bestowed to the wealthy few. Dentistry probably being the highest craft brought to us via the Industrial Revolution; not many acknowledge the micro-precise finery gone into tools and chemicals that enable the restoration of teeth.
Yet ultimately The Plaza consisted of a huge parking lot that spanned the entire frontal premises, that was Enveloped by structures divided by an occasional dark alley. The Guard Room was an entirely glass-walled room housing a few wooden tables and backroom with unreliable utensils. The latter backroom was where shoplifters and trivial perps were taken to be punished when caught; Never arrested, simply beaten and punished and sent back into fray – a terrible pointless process, for they were usually thin, terribly dressed and unable to speak a word of English.
When one sat in the Guard room looking to the scene beyond, they saw the parking lot, the fence beyond, the tall proprietary flags moving in the wind, on the other side of the road a dense cluster of shacks marking the beginnings of a suburb called Cross Roads, and above those clusters was a network of cables and poles siphoning electricity from the power-arrays above.
On one sunny day when assigned a shift at the Plaza, I had a chance to see a bunch of young African girls perform a musical display. They possibly could not have been aged more than 10; all wearing the same skimpy garb: tiny bright red skirts covering the lower regions, and sashes round their chests. There was a bongo drummer or two present and their numbers in total were about 13 to 14. I can't actually recall if there was another musical instrument present. They performed a number of repetitive energized rhythms that were more ritualistic and trance-like, singing, shouting over in unified melody. There were words amongst the sounds and a definite pattern. Despite the unsanded power behind the music it was strangely hypnotic and peaceful - perhaps apportioned to the temperature of the day. What struck me was not only how they transitioned between songs, which lasted several minutes in themselves, but how they long endured it without interruption or getting distracted. Where did they learn these songs? When I say ‘song’ I don't mean one having a verse and chorus, I mean patterns contrived to be musical ritualism. The drumming too was concise and powerful. I couldn't imagine regular children continuing like this with no supervision. I've heard Upper Class moms tell me they've had to watch movies in stages with their kids, in bursts of 15 minutes because the children simply won’t settle down. These African girls seemed able to perform this music alone and unattended.
Such was the township and our designated Plaza, where we'd reside and sometimes I'd be assigned there. We all loved visiting the place, catching up on gossip and byplay, and getting supplies. Some enjoyed popping into the gambling hall to buy a ticket or play the Lottery.
On some mornings, before the sun rose, or during a rainy day, I'd retreat to the Control Room. Sitting on a stool withdrawn into the background, I’d mind my business while controller resumed his ongoings. There was always some radio dialogue ensuing; always some issue that needed tending; he kept a keen eye on the cameras and was one of the few who didn’t waste time watching TikTok. Sometimes when hearing him talk, one couldn’t help but detect an unearthly theme that constituted his voice. He had the courtesy of something futuristic or removed from our current world. It sounded like someone talking to a crew about to excavate a foreign planet, or undertake some huge scientific venture. It was urbane courtesy combined with the lilt of his African accent. This theme wasn't always apparent, but came out at certain times during the unlit morning or during wintry days. A sort of ineffable brotherhood underlying the men in unspoken yet agreed upon unity. And rightly so, for although we’d gotten used to things by custom, some of us never forgot it’s a red-zone. It is pacified chaos… It's conventionalized war. It's a place where sudden death could be imminent.
To observe The Township in its state and hearing all the stories, the mind eventually starts to escape and desperately rationalize things. Because when it objectively dawns on you that between you and the enemy is your armour, weapon, and bullet trajectory, the mind enters a crisis trying to place itself. I didn't realize it at the time but I was trying desperately to escape the situation. I did not turn to higher powers or Divine Authority but instead kept thinking about the planet. How would it avail itself, and spare me from evil? But all you have is the sun, the indifferent birds, and clusters of trees. These things seemingly defiled by the establishment of man deprived of their harmony. I could not make sense of death, I couldn’t keep it open as an option; It was never an outcome worthy of accounting for. However much I thought about it making feeble ratiocinations, combined with the Right of Duty and Greater Good, it usually dissolved into lurid fantasies. Things like birds descending from above to consume my maimed body, and thus carry me into the heavens. Of course the Holy Spirit midst his Kingdom could have had some business in the matter, but the impunity that crimes occurred simply robbed Him of all authority.
The people of the township were a miniature model of something that was regenerating and consuming itself. And somehow they needed it. IT needed it. Civil posterity and English jurisprudence was never heard here. The European sporting his wristwatch and pen could capture a single perp, interrogate him, and try extract compunction from those unwavering eyes and face but find nothing. It's easy to say there's poverty and hunger and desperation, but you cannot imagine the speed and force they attack with; the strength behind their intent is beyond anything capably reasoning with. Was this place in harmony - in some ritualistic way - in a circuitous system of sacrifice, where the collective beast satisfied itself on blood?
In the Ghuguletu region, an attractive African girl approached me with her friends while we were delivering to this open-planned venue that stood outside. There were fires, tables, shops imbedded into walls, pool-tables, and water basins. Here I remarked the scene of 2 men tending to their slaughtered sheep, cutting its throat and bleeding it into a barrel. It occurred to me how the Middle Class don’t usually see these things being processed. No one likes to know the work behind the scenes, or its backend; equally no one worries about the Database of Facebook. So long as the plate arrives next to clean cutlery and the meal’s decorated with garnish, and they can snap a photo of their meal… they remain satisfied. In fact that's the illusion any hotel or restaurant strives to uphold: The illusion of cleanliness and order, accompanied by automation. Obviously, no one wants to feel the disordered man-power and drudgery these places rely upon every day. Kitchens, alleyways and sewers are hugely messy and noisy, but they are the fuel that empowers the machine itself. And its final output is that clean façade - seemingly untouched by stain or inconvenience. That's the one difference between the township and the city - decorum is more or less forgone, or simply minimal here. There are, of course, some places with exception, some high-roller bars we supplied for example.
(photos from the scene that day)
https://ibb.co/3h12Vh3
https://ibb.co/nMWkVdT
https://ibb.co/br7bcjc
In any case, this aforementioned girl took a liking to me and made quite a fuss. By custom we never allow close contact with civilians or even risk any display, but she came close enough to lay a gentle hand upon my face. My partner, through a combination of duty and jealousy, intervened. But what I lamented over later, was that no matter
how shapely and smooth her body, there would always be an impossible rift that divided us - a rift as mere as whether or not she’s read Harry Potter or Narnia.
THE SYNDICATE AND TAXI RIOTS
It began on a day, like any other. On a Tuesday during the 12:00pm stocktake that happened weekly. All trucks ceased; usually a nice period of afternoon rest followed which the men basked in. It happened around 1:30pm, at the Distribution centre: I was pacing up and down in the courtyard, and heard the Controller talking about some guys who'd visited another site; He said he’s reviewing the footage to recover their vehicle plate. They'd dropped off some letter written in English saying something about settling a debt. It soon became apparent they were a Syndicate trying to extort 'Protection Money'. At the time it seemed isolated and particular to that zone. But it turned out - though we'd only find out later - that they actually drove past us in the courtyard. They pretended to be interested in the Wifi business but went straight around the back to the truck depot. They got out their car, walked into the office and accosted the manageress. Her name was Rita; a busty, well groomed, coloured lady who comported herself well; she always smelt of perfume and wealth and the men used to perve over her behind the scenes. None of us were informed and simply carried on relaxing in the Courtyard. We were later offended by the lack of communication, because they must have seen us relaxing, and some even dozing off. The manageress was unduly ruffled from the encounter, contacting the head-office and our superiors. Finally decisive messages came through on our WhatsApp group including images taken off the cameras.
In less than 40 minutes our boss and Operational manager arrived in their Ford Ranger. They didn’t encounter us but drove straight to the Controller, then to the office behind.
On this day, it seemed at least 2 venues had been approached with some kind of ultimatum.
The day subsided with little action but I asked my colleagues to try explain. It seemed this was quite a common practise that most legit businesses had at some point been given in to; even commercial franchises with household names in the area. Naturally the ultimatum was absurd, since the Syndicate offering protection from harm would cause the harm if unsatisfied.
The general impression was the threat couldn't be ignored. The Next day arrived and while on the road, we heard radio chatter confirming more places had been approached. I made a point of talking to the warehouse manager at some effected site; he actually showed me the written letter, which was in surprisingly clear English. The message was clear and polite with no errors, vaguely alluding to some fee outstanding. Yet it carried a threat saying without payment made the business must close.
As the day transpired 3 more venues were visited. And not by the same pair of men; the cars used changed and their garb looked different.
The footage and the vehicle number plates were being processed. The boss was already investigating trying to find the group emanating these letters. Something obviously had to be done. In the afternoon we got a photo with an audio description. It showed a guy wearing a cap and an unfriendly profile, sitting in some unlit club. He was the leader of the group by the same of ‘Peli’ and would stand out if seen due to the scar on his cheek.
Getting back to the office that night Colsen asked if I'm available to work on Friday, forgoing a day off. I forged some excuse and he said playfully
"damnit, 'cause I'm gonna be guarding Nyanga that day with a shotgun, you're the one guy I trust".
I was tempted and quite touched. I hadn't worked with him before and only spoke after hours a few times, talking about his veteran grandad, UK Special forces, Spetznaz and other harrowing anecdotes.
I returned home that evening, and put the kettle. For the next two days I was off, and followed the events on WhatsApp. It became clear that every liquor depot was slowly but surely visited and given the same ultimatum. The Boss urged the men to stay sharp and not to worry; he was soon having a meeting with the head-office to discuss the reprisal. Never forget, Management can’t act without the client's input, especially without additional funds. In some cases improvised decisions are on the field, like dispatching an extra vehicle, or giving assistance somewhere unexpected. But it’s a habit to blame the Security Operations for lack of initiative while in reality it’s the client whose decision effected their movements.
Saturday came and I arose anew to resume duty. Entering the armoury I found about 13 new men standing midst the cerulean light. Certainly they looked novel and different from our regular crew; not like the usual slender African nor the lanky thin coloured guy. Some were burly, some looked fit. Some moderately portly but upright and staunch.
All these men were Free-lancers and contractors, that’d been hired for the duration of the current plight. They wore their own gear and clothes; mostly donned black with matching armour and shoes. One of them had a badge attached with a Red Skull titled God will Judge all - We'll arrange the meeting.
Most had a variety of boots and shoes, some wavering between casual light garb but serviceable for the field. I saw hunting knives protruding close at hand, cans of spray and iron-plated gloves; a variety of deadly looking insignia attached to their clothing too; some wore glasses giving a civil yet calculated coldness. Only perhaps one, maybe two had tattoos. It is known that tattoos risk branding one permanently disreputable, barring them from certain illustrious posts, like Close Protection for high-profile clients.
Some had shotgun shells equipped and I'm sure I saw flash grenades, being surprised since they're highly regulated and illegal to own. I introduced myself roughly while heading to my locker to gear up.
They were being dispensed their weapons and was working energetically distributing permits collecting signatures thereof. They were all issued hand-guns but mostly heavy firepower, either a Rifle or a shotgun. At length the boss emerged, and gave some kind of run-down. It seemed this was the first day of their arrival; I hadn't missed anything. His words covered cautionary points and procedure, and sounded something encouraging. I found my partner and we set out in our vehicle. It seemed these guys would be stationed in pairs at every liquor depot and venue as static guards.
We arrived at DC and under the blue darkness of incipient dawn, we saw a bunch of guys standing outside their cars. It turned out Colsen was on the field, which was surprising since he usually stayed behind manning the armoury. He had a shotgun and was discussing how much more scary and evil it is than the rifle – “they’re too used to the Rifle…” He’d say.
My partner sauntered off to visit the controller and use his kettle, and I ended up joining Colsen in his car. He showed me the shotgun and how to load shells. His main purpose for being there was to be the presence of one armed with a deadly weapon - Rita the manageress had vaguely stipulated that; though it seemed Colsen had no scruple to occasionally attend an escort. In fact an early truck emerged and since my partner wasn’t present Colsen announced we’d take it. Gripping the radio he informed Ndanda (calling the controller by name) and followed it. I was sitting in the driver seat. The current truck we had was destined for the Strand Lomzamo region. That was a faraway remote site, featuring a long 50 minute drive to the East on the N2 highway. The route was further lengthened due to the trucks taking an off-ramp onto a rural road that developed passing through rich houses and green neighbourhoods, then eventually busy town – a beautiful journey, safe and peaceful, and the only risk was the eventual arrival at the Lomzamo Township. This period allowed Colson to relax a bit, handling his cellphone browsing WhatsApp. His dialogue and comments were hilarious and interesting to overhear. He had a staunch, concise way of talking: a perfect mixture of businesslike levity. He’d exclaim aloud and send long prolific voice-notes. Occasionally he’d turn to me and utter phrases like: "Stay sharp; Stay alert; Keep a look out; anyone approaches us let me know so I can put 3 rounds in his chest."
He also mentioned something about a special team arriving tomorrow. They were 2 brothers who worked together, apparently hugely professional and notoriously dangerous.
Day subsided and evening fell with no critical events, save for a few suspicious vehicles driving past the depots; tinted windows and male silhouettes, but taking no action. The Following morning when I arriving at the office, most of the freelancers left already, I noticed 2 new men lurking in the shadows, dressed in black while smoking. They gave the impression of being Black Ops or members of some deadly terrorist faction. Their faces hidden by those typical pullover masks, I only saw their eyes. The one uncovered himself to greet me, in a husky voice that was soft, gravelly and didn’t match his countenance. These 2 men were called ‘The Jansen Brothers’, the pair mentioned by Colsen. Their armour had an emblem representing ‘K9 unit’, a ravenous wolf-hound sketched in white, and like the others, and array of red shotgun shells. The way they moved was slightly unnerving. It was fast, dexterous and silent. Colsen seemed to fancy ingratiating himself with them, and maybe a bit of territorial power-struggle implicitly ensued. He instructed them to follow us to the site, and follow his ‘book in’ on the radio. With the sun arisen they’d then leave and proceed to roam, randomly patrolling and checking on the depot venues. The freelancers were static, posted at individual sites, while these 2 were free and could mobilize if called upon. Incidentally they were given a Diesil Nissan - an older model that had 280 000km on the clock.
I despised that vehicle. The canopy had no windows,
obstructing the blind spot; and I was always suspect of Diesel engines believing Petrol superior. However it did have dark tinted windows – a tactical advantage. And seeing them using this car changed my view a bit.
We arrived at the site, the sun hadn't risen yet. We exited and Colson lit a cigarette. He smoked often a cheap brand called 777. Us four men were standing around; at length I put forth a question. A question contrived to impart experience unto me.
I said something like: "How do you know or get into the zone to react and draw your firearm? How do you did it without panicking or stiffening up?" Something like that.
The brother called the one with the non-husky voice to explain.
He came closer and said: "Ok, How do you answer your cellphone?"
I demonstrated. He continued:
"Ok, it's like that. You draw your weapon as you're answering your phone. It's part of your equipment. You don’t experience anxiety when taking a call. You mustn't be anxious. It’s as natural as taking a call – the same cue.”
He gestured with imitating movements.
“Like this.. It's your eyes and ears and you know what's going on around you. Also, are you comfortable?”
Probably the most crucial question I’d been asked in several years - Are you comfortable?
He repeated:
“Are you comfortable? Now, in your equipment standing here. Can you move, can you check your pockets, can you suddenly fight or get into a stance? Can you make or take a punch…"
He moved demonstrating all this.
A flash of insight was irretrievably lit - Whether he knew it or not, he pointed out all those aches and tension that city slickers are so prone to carry; the stiffness that makes one rigid unable to make sudden movements. Me and Colsen had to leave, and so ended his brilliant soliloquy, but those minutes and words made a huge change - I began adjustments with my clothing and gear, even shirking the company garb, which was a stiff para-military outfit, uncomfortable as hell with a button pressing against my chest. We could be excused for neglecting the official uniform; management didn't enforce it and the armour usually had the company logo too.
That morning, all the freelancers were checking in via the WhatsApp group. The one Jansen brother also checked in with an overly detailed report, encompassing a huge written detail. He listed everything: their weapons, calibre, equipment, even their vehicle type and registration number. However impressive these details were, they weren’t pertinent to the matter – I did find that pedantic effort quite strange, but assumed it was just their thorough professionalism manifesting.
It turns out they were roaming and already on that day got involved in some shootout and chase, aiding the Police in an arrest. They were lauded as heroes on the group; I made a joke saying to bring the perp back to the Controller for ‘Special Interrogation’. Yet, there were murmurs amongst the crew: “What about the work related to OUR business?”
Later that day I encountered them while at a depot waiting for a truck to load: The brother with the Husky voice wore hazard-glasses. I realized they were using that terrible Nissan Diesil again, but seeing their sinister forms inside made the car seem evil and menacing.
They were meant to stall and wait for a truck to load fuel barrels for transport, but said categorically "Radio us when they're done - we're gonna roam" and so took off into the labyrinth of the dense streets and houses.
The following day the Syndicate organized some disposable men to drive around some rusty truck deploying burning tires on the roads. Not coincidentally they were at key points that hindered our Truck routes. Immediately the Jansen Brothers were summoned who accosted them causing them to flee – it was said the Jansen brothers fired shots at them to bring about this. At another later point, at the depot called Site B, within the region of Khayelitsha, a single Quantum pull up loaded with dark male shapes.
The two freelancers emerged and trained their guns on them, the Quantum sped away while blindly discharging a round. The Freelancers reacted unloading several rounds into it, which might have easily killed an occupant or two, but it continued driving. What was interesting is that while follow-through reports were written and the event documented, there seemed no official investigation into whether the crew had legitimate right to use their weapons. This was due to the fact there were no dead subjects to account for directly.
On another day, within the early hours before dawn, 2 freelancers who were given a car arrived at their site. They would routinely await the manager then escort him into the premises. During that window period, out of the darkness a White Toyota arrived with 5 men who attempted to hi-jack them.
They returned fire and shot the car, while 2 others ran disappearing amongst the shacks and alleys. This might've been unrelated to the syndicate though.
The next morning I greeted the Jansen brothers and the non-husky one told me he couldn't get to sleep. It seemed less of a statement than a plea for advice, like he was fishing or trying to communicate. Though he looked fine surrounded by the usual stance of vital energy. A few nights earlier though (for some reason) they were working overtime; they had caught someone stealing power cables. This was reported on the WhatApp group along with photos of the scene and culprit. I was off that time at some techno-trance party having paid R320 to get in with 2 friends of mine. Naturally I wasn't drinking, keeping sober as part of my regime. The music was quite terrible moulding into a repetitive noise of seamless mush.
Yet the tempo still afforded some shapely vivacious girls to dance against the strobing lights, midst the smoked-up unlit hall. These were 2 friends, one being historical, the other guy new. They even agreed the music was below mediocre. I wondered if I would’ve appreciated the night more if the music was simply better. But the outcome would be the same: A dark place with crowded noise and a source of fluid enabling heightened states of incompetence. When that report came through it struck me that that was happening while I’m here too… Here in this recreationally stylized joint for the Middle class. In some way, being in the company of hipsters and yuppies made me feel protected from the evil of crime-ridden hovels.
Seeing some report attesting to The Call of Duty made me appreciate my surroundings a wee bit more, since this current place didn't expect me to be in battle mode. And YET… where was I? Have I come here to hunt? Have I come here to procure a female, on the off chance that sober lucidity, a few jokes and a moderate wallet is enough to gain her favour? Have I come here to hunt like the Jansen brothers do? Hunt something for violent subterfuge or instinctual discharge. If the Township served as a conventionalized zone allowing War to occur, in what fashion does this musical venue cater for human interplay? Once in other less-refined cities in the land, I’ve sat at a table and heard a ‘friend’ exclaim they're looking for a fight, like it’s something on the menu one can choose. He soon listed the criteria of his target, like what type of stereotyped cliché he’d enjoy beating up.
It's always a risk drinking in a public place because you never know who's out there. Being sober in a place like this gives a small measure of control but the trade-off is that you're disconnected. You’re disconnected from the people around you. There's no harmony with anyone around, but when the warmth of liquor enters the mouth, the urge to talk over the loudness comes about suddenly small talk and cliches become warmly interesting. Receiving that photo was a crucial moment because of the rift it depicted, ruffling the comfort zone of my familiar feathers. It came down to this: Would I rather be doing something interesting or would I rather be here, trying to feign wealth, charisma and tasteful sensuality amongst a crowd playing the same game.
I was on the brink of undergoing some forced personal renovation hoping to stylize myself as a dangerous marksman and accomplished tactician. A sudden inspiration hit me: To go home to sleep then rise early and hit the gun-range; spend time at a café pouring over Art of War; Do another set of push-ups during my morning route – anything to get closer to the standard set by the Jansen Brothers.
You cannot compare them to the usual ilk of coloured guy who worked for our Company. Take Johannes for example, a thin guy who had the cheerful face of an acquiescent boy. All the ingredients were there, all the intent and training. But there was something lacking, something subtly missing; like some genetic feature or psychological trait that rendered him separate from the Jansen brothers. Its significance came out in the way they carried themselves, a glint in the eye, an overall demeanour which attested to something instinctual… instinctual and spontaneous.
As it turned out that night at the trance venue someone who looked like a surly Afrikaans guy was drifting around with immoderate levels of booze in him. I was leaning against the wall on one of the side-platforms, which he came to surmount. When passing his hand made contact with my ear, with full force. He muttered a split second apology but it was obviously deliberate. Probably my meek stature and appearance which attested to English docility inspired him to do it.
In any case, I began questioning the dedicated effort of the 2 brothers who seemed to be working overtime - I didn't know if it was voluntary or if they were on Night shift. Why roam the township after darkness?
A few days later, suddenly the Jansen Brothers were nowhere to be found, and their names removed from the WhatsApp group. It turns out that the boss, while reporting to one of their crime scenes during night had discovered drug paraphenalia in their car; they had been using Speed – a powerful stimulant known by the crude appellation as Tik. Now things make a bit more sense!
It did explain that pedantic report they posted, being characteristic of speed thereof. There was a long process and hearing they were compelled to attend but instead, they simply just disappeared never returning. In the light of things can you imagine how illegal that was? Carrying firearms owned by another business while under the influence of chemicals. One evening getting a chance I asked the boss what happened and he confirmed everything. Another critical thing he mentioned: They were mostly roaming around hunting criminals, instead of attending to our clients. What a business!
45 days elapsed and the Syndicate subsided, fading into inactivity. The contractors remained until the end of the second month. Overall it was an exciting time. Every chance to speak to them I took thus gaining plenty knowledge thereby. Three crucial things I learnt to apply on the field: Always be conscious of your vehicle and its capacity, be ready to pull away or drive over someone assailing you. Know your enemy: the Africans see losing their Freedom as abject defeat while the Coloureds (and Whites) see Prison as heroic. And finally, there is occasionally a time when outgunned and numbered to capitulate rather than get killed.
A day came when a message appeared on the group declaring the end of the current terms. I arrived one morning to find they’d all gone - the contract had ended.
A few weeks elapsed. During the course of days I had chance to work along a number of different partners. Some I liked, some I despised. One man called Stanley left quite an impression on me, he was old, experienced, and had been in 2 Cash-in-transit heists before, of which he both survived (obviously). The one story and its description, I had to mentally gloss over, being too terrible in turn to comprehend. And it appeared afterwards he’d rediscovered Jesus. I believe that because his survival was statistically insane. Apparently there were 9 men behind the heist; they emerged from a Van, storming the ATM and opening fire. Stanley hid behind a pillar within a second’s decision, managing to throw down his weapon peaceably, shouting out his surrender. Usually a heist on that scale spares no one by principle. I could understand him giving The Holy Spirit credit for helping him that day.
Stanley had an awful habit of chewing gum; he munched it in a loud exhibitional fashion. Luckily I could summon forth a random Bible Scripture that’d trigger him to talk and rant on philosophically. He was often lax and really believed in Township lifestyle; he was in harmony with our surroundings. But the worst thing was when he told me to 'relax', especially when something jolted me or remarking something suspicious. In truth, he was enjoying the upper-hand of knowledge and experience, and no doubt trying to induce trust within me. Basically he was trying to get me to see this place as different and misunderstood, instead of impoverished, dangerous and forsaken – both notions might’ve been true. He would never have done it to another non-African colleague… he was taking advantage of my English Docility. Once on the highway he produced his lunch, which was a sheep’s head and started devouring it; he even offered me some as a polite afterthought; I declined. The vehicle smelt like aged biltong that’d been microwaved. I was highly agitated and coincidentally, we were caught in a traffic jam where upon some delinquent ran onto the road, coming from the grass planes, and stole the hub-cap of an SUV in front of us. Not that that was something we should’ve dealt with, but it attested to him letting his guard down unduly.
THE TAXI STRIKES
Months or weeks passed and the time came when the Taxi Strikes were about to commence – an event that was covered internationally by the news. It was local to our province the Western Cape, and thus would feature across the entire region, in small towns and cities alike. On the first day videos began circulating amongst people: footage of an avalanche of about a thousand taxis that had stormed the city (all of them Quantums). Their presence - and I'm quite sure they refused to budge - blocked everything and halted the population who couldn’t travel or leave the city. This was in the Central Business District – effectively known as Cape Town City. Another video appeared of ostensible police brutality. Law enforcement agents and South African Police Service (SAPS) hording Africans out their van, smashing the windows. It would transpired that they shot at the police (naturally this part never featured in the clip).
It seemed the Taxi Industry were targeting the upper-class so it was unclear how or if this would manifest in the Township. I went home that day. This female I knew who owned a beauty salon in Town attested to the nightmare and sent me more videos of the taxis. The taxis in their numbers uncountable had endured blocking the CBD into the night. The next morning we reported for duty. No one said anything or gave any warning or instructions about anything new. I remember that morning we were asked to drop off 2 crewmen at 108, the Head-Office in Epping. 108 as it was called always had 2 armed guards stationed, who sat in an inconspicuous vehicle all day protecting the key personnel and CEO.
It was a lovely post, boring and uneventful allowing plenty of idle byplay. Usually my colleague put on Jason Statham movies via his phone. Actually one of featured a flick about a Cash-In-Transit heist, which felt duly relevant. When relieved I was offered to stay that day and fulfil the shift, but didn’t. It was technically a huge mistake. We left and soon arrived at the Distribution Centre; the sun was just about availing itself. I walked to the Controller and greeted him with small talk asking about this Taxi business. He sat there with his routine coffee, and said he wasn’t too sure although was clear about one thing saying “…don't underestimate the Taxi industry…” I recalled a few years ago when the Zuma Riots occurred (the unrest during the time our defected ex-president was arrested to stand trial) the taxis were apparently against them and a force powerful enough to withstand The Zuma Faction.
The Controller told me things might escalate because the Western Cape Government refused to budge against their ultimatum’s demands. The reason for the strike is that thousands of Taxi vehicles had been impounded by the Traffic Police. The Taxi Industry wanted these vehicles released with little or no remuneration. Keep in mind that the Municipal party in charge of the Western Cape Province is the DA (Democratic Alliance) and an opposing force to the ruling ANC party. And seeing as the DA comprised of law-abiding liberal intellectuals, it was easy to present the narrative as tyrannical bureaucrats whose laws inhibit the Freedom of Taxis, notwithstanding what incurred the impoundment to begin with.
By now I’d been assigned a new partner called Skaye, and he would remain in history my most favourite ever. Skaye was devoid of disgusting habits – particularly cellphone and gum habits. He purported a subtle wit and lazy disinterest that was perfectly brilliant for my purpose. One thing about him, whenever on standby sitting in the car, he would go onto Facebook silently and kept to himself, keeping away from TikTok. He also didn’t use WhatsApp apparently thus never checked annoying statuses.
(photo of us)
https://ibb.co/K2g7LPV
Soon enough we were attending escorts and on the move. At about 10:45am we pulled up at the plaza to purchase an energy drink. I had been introduced to this cheap brand of energy-soda called Score. The original flavour was guarana and tasted vitally good; a little story printed on the can’s side about a tree that 2 lovers always gathered to meet underneath. Then one night it was set alight by a thunder bolt and burnt, but endured the fire. Ever since then the tree yielded a fruit that magically gave vigour and energy. Inside the Plaza ShopRite thousands of cans were piled in some corner by the entrance. Probably about 100 000 scores are drank across the country on every hour.
As we emerged Davids the one coloured guard was there and he'd heard that the Taxis in our region will strike tomorrow. Actually when he said region he didn't mean this localized area, it really meant the entire city, inclusive of the Township regardless. Wondering what this would entail, I thought people simply wouldn’t have transport. Noon came, and more people began contacting us to say something’s definitely going down tomorrow; also there was activity on the N2 highway and we should probably avoid it. The day came to an end, and it'd fallen upon us to attend the site Wagon Burner - a remote venue in the suburb of Blue Downs. Wagon Burner entailed driving there around 4pm and parking the vehicle within the premises, while the staff do cash up and close the shop. The site was nice in an arbitrary sense. It had this large tree against the Western wall that dropped its seeds into a stone gutter. The gutter was at an angle where due to the short alley and opposite structure it got almost no sun at all. So any rain water left would stay for days. The seeds imbued the water with a rich scent quite satisfying that left a fume on my hands after rinsing them.
Wagon burner closed around 6:00pm, we left after, and took the highway exiting Blue Downs. It was already dark past twilight; close to the R300 junction we saw crowds and clusters of thousands of people walking along the roadside. They were highly varied ranging from bank tellers to store clerks. Most looked coloured and likely heading to Mitchells Plain, and a few adjacent suburbs. Subsequently we saw emergency vehicles and signs attesting to some riot recently subdued. There were debris on the road, stones and shattered glass. Skaye started droning on about the perils of Stone throwing. Stone throwing is a criminal-African custom. You underestimate how dangerous it is. A stone itself can impact the head, and cut the face and dislodge the mind. They quite often smash threw windows and result in glass damaging the eye, or the stone itself hitting it; a security officer should technically wear hazard glasses on every shift.
Skaye recalled a story of a Taxi Driver who lost an eye from a stone hitting him through his window, and a young teen responsible for throwing it. We returned to the office and overheard that the boss was considering recruiting more contractors again, but it seemed they’d just use our permanent work force…. for now.
The following day came. Coincidentally the skies had gathered with clouds, but not portending rain. A haze was in the air forming a strange mist that lingered all morning. This layer of haze or indefinite cloud persisted. Whether it was moisture or seasonal debris from the pending Spring I didn't know. Entering the office I heard reports; pockets of trouble erupting, in key hotspots, though most places effected weren’t our jurisdiction. Shootings, robberies, and other clusters of violence. Overall as the night had elapsed dozens of cases of sabotage and looting ensued, but more importantly the highways were under attack at critical junction points.
It was decided that our team could not separate and will drive in convoy to the distribution center. Already it was said that trucks won’t run today but as a matter of course we’re still to arrive and guard the site. The Controller who lived nearby would’ve walked to his outpost by now, but I heard them mention problems of getting the Night Controllers home once relieved by Ndanda himself. The Boss appeared, prepped in his combat garb. He took out his phone handling it, as if contemplating some alternate route or piece of news. He began talking, announcing to the whole room "Ok, everyone as I'm sure you all know we are driving in convoy. I am coming with you today; there are riots happening on the N2 and likely the R300 too - we going to come down via the Blue Downs off ramp and approach from the North…” He gestured to one of the guys behind the desk who brought a box from behind the table. Inside were hazard glasses, we each got 2 types of pairs: tinted and see-through. With a bit of fuss and pre-amble, we started up our respective vehicles; over the din and commotion we checked our itinerary. I asked Johannes to repeat it about 4 times, just to be sure.
If I had not introduced him already, I should have done so earlier: There was a profound colleague who joined us after the Syndicate business subsided. He came from Angola and spoke Portuguese going by the name Jose. He was markedly divided from our local brand of typical African – such is the case oft with foreigners, and this cannot be emphasized enough. He carried himself with a cordoned conceit, marked not by education nor money, but a higher custom sensed within him. He was highly experienced having worked many dangerous jobs. He knew the Township and its layout since he’d escorted tobacco there before – something a hundred times more hazardous than liquor as it was easy to sell and easily carried. He’d actually been shot before by a hand-gun but it hit his armour upon the chest section. He had many interesting stories too, one episode he recalled stuck in my mind. It was a story of a reticent Xhosa (African) guy who worked amongst them. They used to mock him since he occasionally came to work with war-paint on his face. Though one dark evening, a vehicle he was overseeing was ambushed by 4 armed men. It is not clear what ensued but the Xhosa guy, armed with a rifle, went into some kind of frenzy and blew them all to pieces killing every one of them. They simply discovered him, after he’d emptied both clips (which equated to 60 rifle rounds) apparently in a state of bewitched shock, frozen and poised, fibrillating uncontrollably – perhaps from rage.
(Jose is the guy in the photo where I'm holding a rifle, on the far right)
Jose used to always talk about war. He constantly watched YouTube reports on the current war. He was - by design or choice – naturally bred for war. He always boldly stressed: "This is not job, this is war my bro... this is a WAR!" His manner was usually loud, with a sort of rapid reptilian assertiveness, like a lizard moving quickly and gesticulating when roused. The boss and head-office took a liking to him and had provided ancillary help, like organizing accommodation and forwarding him petrol money. Somehow he was connected to the Jansen brothers and had trained them. He had a fall out with them when they left; apparently they were urging him to quit and leave along with them. I remember when driving through Blue Downs he said their garage repair business was on this road on some corner; he crouched down and hid. Jose took a huge liking to me and on his first day was assigned with me. I intuitively knew to stand my ground with him and adapt a rigid, unbending character. I was right since he was ultimately domineering. And… No doubt he was drawn to me due to sensing an extra layer of wealth within my pockets. Little things came out in his urge to dominate: like insisting on driving a vehicle signed out by me; being pedantic and critical over tiny habits; telling me not to smile in case criminals interpret it as weakness.
Jose actually was a song-writer and had recorded songs on the Fruity-Loops software. They were in the key of E-minor incidentally; a sort of ambient generic piece of RnB media – essentially terrible but better than most. He was utterly duplicitous and unsparing when discussing other colleagues. He said terrible things about them, but around them he was kind and worked with them fine.
In the light of the pending Taxi Riots, Jose proved to be a strong presence during the time and reinforced our moral. He was the same rank as me but we never drove as partners, for we’d eventually clashed during those initial days working together - in a controlled but fervent way. We’d settled our differences by separating. We weren't enemies, but he made sure I wasn't his partner again. We got into the cars and set out, with the Boss more or less in range in his Silver Ford. We did not have to follow him but he was on the same route. I was behind the convoy counting on their leading us. We surmounted a highway and found our way through a long convoluted road passing through an industrial area surrounded by green fields and steel towers. The mist was so dense we could only see a few dozen metres ahead. Ghostly power pylons stood like ethereal giants midst the grey shroud. Suddenly a scene developed; some obstruction was ahead and a tire appeared rolling across the tar. It was a car accident, caused by someone driving an SUV with passengers inside.
The colliding victims were two African guys (maybe foreign, due to their stature and garb) who’d crashed into him in a small hatchback. The latter driver emerged but the passenger was unconscious inside. It looked disturbingly eerie to see that face peacefully knocked out and body reclined asleep on the seat. We all stopped briefly, including the Boss who was in range, to dutifully help. The SUV driver looked ruffled, but innocent and well meaning – Apparently he was hugely distracted since he wasn't allowed to be transporting people. The Boss asked me to guard his car. Standing there along the grass planes I imagined raiding bandits lurking in the mist beyond. We left and continued, eventually reaching the off-ramp which took us into Mitchells plain. There we would strike a road that developed into the township right alongside the Distribution Center. At this point the Boss diverted course and left us.
Though the hour early and the sun out, the scene was virtually deserted. There was almost no traffic; a few stray characters were on the street looking either arbitrary or suspect, but no stalls or shops were open. We reached D.C. and couldn’t see the Madala tending the gate. Instead the Controller stood there opening it, in civilian garb, actually dressed in quite stylish clothes. A jacket branded Nike and clean white sports shoes. He was on his way to the Control Room and repeated the problem of getting Night Shift back home. We parked the cars and I emerged; everyone else got out too. Usually we all contrived a light breakfast pooling our funds together but the lady who sold those fat-cakes wasn't there, in fact almost no one was there. I don't think the petrol station across the road was open or its respective shop. I proceeded to the Control Room, finding the 2 night shift guys sitting there. He mentioned an armed taxi was roaming Cross Roads, forcing people to stay in their houses. They had said "Go home. Don't go to work today. Stay at home".
So it seemed every shack we'd passed on the way here was probably filled with timid occupants too scared to exit. The Plaza Crew who’d travelled with us, walked on foot via the back-gate. They found the staff of Roots Butchery and Shoprite crowded outside and departing. They asked to come through the back-gate and leave via the Distribution Centre entrance. We left the Control Room and drove to Plaza just to check in. The quiet empty ambience felt a bit unreal. The place was never this quiet and devoid of its business.
Heading back to D.C. and checking on the Controller again, the night shift guys still hadn't left. A surge of sympathy urged me to phone the boss for advice - we could technically risk a brief trip with a vehicle. There were some people on the street, though it seemed they had some purpose that could be justifiably explained or simply felt immune. But we were told to wait until the boss arrived. The scene eventuated to us men standing resolute under the moist yellow sun midst the court yard. Josè dominating the converse giving urgent warnings. Stanley was there too, and could withstand his domineering manner able to mirror his dire words with equal resolution. The thing that we’d all picked up - impossible to ignore as it was – was that so far quite literally the Township had been locked down by the Taxi Industry. While there was no official rule that someone couldn’t walk the streets, we still had no idea how indiscriminate they were. Would they leave security units alone? How sweeping and encompassing was this declaration of war?
Eventually the silver Ford pulled up. Out came the Boss along with his friend Allister. They looked impressive, lit by the opaque light donned in their combat garb. Both wore Ballistics Helmets and hazard glasses carrying themselves with a controlled urgency. The same delivery as this morning was repeated while he handed more hazard glasses to those without. It turns out the Plaza ShopRite and Roots butchery staff were in fact coming back to resume business despite the risk. We were instructed to keep a nominal presence of at least 1 unit here at DC, while the bulk hovered around Plaza. In fact maybe due to the repressive atmosphere subsiding merely out of course, dregs of civil traffic appeared beyond the gate’s view. The Madala had even arrived belatedly to man the entrance. The boss himself decided to take the Night Personnel back and so left us with our orders. As always, a surge of instinctual current was left coursing through our veins. Although we only really dealt with the Boss occasionally, whenever he gave a pep talk, it always left a good readiness. It was evidenced by Jose clapping rubbing his hands together and Stanley with a bolstered stride; it felt like inhaling charred fumes of burning incense or a wolf’s pray digesting in its belly – Never, ever was it the irksome drudge of work consigned, burdening tension and aching weight.
For an unmeasured hour or two I remained in the DC courtyard. Sporadic gunshots sounded within reach every 30 minutes or so. Though this technically was nothing too unusual, the frequency and proximity was above normal; probably criminals taking advantage of the climate. The police were occupied elsewhere too, for they reported that some kind of civil war had erupted on the highway.
At the hour of noon I drove to the plaza via the back-gate. The populace was thin and cars limited, but the day continued somewhat normally, though still felt lacking. Our friends mentioned the Butchery staff were disgruntled and fearful after returning.
The controller as usual was monitoring the camera-feed from the other sites. At some time around 2:20pm Stanley and Jose were dispatched to check out the Philipi site in Protea Road, for the manager had called hearing reports of a fire. This site was very close by just up the road; a hairpin turn into a secluded street across from a Funeral Parlour. Upon arrival they discovered just a tire burning nearby that’d caused the smoke. They lingered outside for several minutes to monitor, just to be sure. Abruptly in the Shopping zone across the road perpendicular, several shots occurred; they could be heard faintly from the DC courtyard. Stanley and Jose did not budge or get involved, but driving past on their way back reported emergency units tending to the dead. The shopping zone’s main attraction was called ‘Goal’ – I’d seen the sign many times before with a Soccer Ball Logo. When Stanley reported it over the radio I had no idea what he’s talking about because it sounded like he said “Ghoul”.
We maintained presence, lingering in the DC Courtyard until the hour of 4pm. We’d all parked are vehicles in a loose cluster and stood around talking idly. The only ones at The Plaza were its official team. We were standing, leaning and chatting blithely. Suddenly explosive gunshots erupted unquestionably within proximity to Plaza. Josè and Johannes were the first in their vehicles gripping their respective partners. They reached the gate screaming to a halt, over-revving the engine while the Madala quickly released the gate; the controller uttering confirmation over the radio. They shot out the entrance while we followed behind. Around the corner crowds of people were running and scattering beyond the parking entrance.
Not knowing quite what to do, and trying to strike a balance between careful approach and storming the front, I mounted the curb and drove slowly over the gravel plane, instead of using the road. Skaye commended this action with full recognition applauding me. Within a minute we joined the cluster of vehicles at the gate. The Plaza team could be seen from the distance walking hurriedly to us from the direction of the Surgery & Gambling alley. I was hoping they’d give visual confirmation to what’s going. To my annoyance their radio was off - it being an operational blunder that its battery depletes near the end of day. As for me I exited our vehicle, firearm at hand pointing downwards; Skaye clambered out nonchalantly and joined the fray. Some kind of powerful adrenaline had unleashed within me, coursing through my mind, synergizing all movement that extended to my firearm. I was staunchly pacing up and down taking in everything around, as if storing the entire 360 radius in my mind. Josè was issuing some blind instruction saying I should move my car to bar the entrance; as if to essentially setup a road block. Another said fervently we must “stop any more people coming inside!” As he said that I saw 2 disreputable juves about to cross the entrance, of which my mind processed as potentially hostile while simultaneously hearing his words: I suddenly found myself, in a voice more powerful than ever, shouting aloud “AWAY!! GET AWAY!! GET OUTTA HERE!”
My voice carried outwards reverberating with a strength that even caused Josè to turn in alarm. Naturally, the 2 lads scattered like obedient mice. The 2 Plaza crewmen had joined us, gesturing to something in plain sight through the fence: A car that’d half mounted the curb opposite to the left; the driver lay dead inside. And the perp who shot him
had run off into Cross roads disappearing between the shacks.
None of us risked approaching the scene. All that was left was for us to secure our premises and usher out all staff members peaceably - if that even possible. I checked my phone and discovered The Boss had tried calling. It rang again that instant and I took it. He began to brief me on our next move, which I’d relay in turn to the crew. The instructions were as follows: The 2 night-shift Plaza guards were already on their way by foot to us - they could not get transport to the office so had to come with us.
We would take them back in convoy to the office, where they’d be armed, then brought to cover the area for Nightshift. However 2 extra guards were joining them, who also needed aid getting back to base, making a total of 4 on duty that night. 1 car, me and Skaye, would bring the current 2 crewmen back to base, while another vehicle, Kula and Mtwengane, would drive directly into the outskirts (of the Kaylitcha region) and retrieve the additional 2. The two other units (of drivers Johannes and Josè) would remain at Plaza until relieved by the latter. I understood the plan, however a moment of gelatinous self-doubt caused me to hand the phone to Josè, who received the same plan, and thus helped relinquish my burden. We stood there at the entrance for at least 2 hours (though it felt timeless) while the sun made its way passing the billboard subsiding into the heavens, yet the sky stayed lit with its seasonal haze. Eventually I told the men to turn off the hazard lights and engines, saving resource. Around the time of perhaps after 6:00pm we heard an explosion, followed by another a moment after. It was quite possibly the most offensive terrible noise I’ve heard, being impossible to compare to anything hitherto known. Soon enough the staff had all left and the time came to set out. However we all resolved that I would follow Kula initially, who knew the off-ramp that’d allow us back to base. We exited the Plaza and made ready to exit via DC’s gate. Kula was in the lead; the 2 aforementioned guards (for the time unarmed) in the back behind him. By now our phones were the only means of communicating, the radios having depleted. As we were about to leave the main gate the controller emerged to check on us, he ran pressing himself against Kula’s window for a moment.
He withdrew then came to tell us that one of the guards was already nearby, so we would simply pick him up at a marked location of which Kula was just told. We left and I kept close by behind him. He was taking an alternative road we used often that passed an array of shacks, then developed into an open wilderness marked by a swamp and pylon towers. We heard repeated bursts of consecutive gunshots in the distance, and I glimpsed a couple of figures bolting across into the grassy horizon. At this point it was officially late evening and all things outside were dark and hard to spot. Only undiscernible silhouettes could be seen. The planes and land were covered in some unaccountable darkness despite still being light. Suddenly Kula pulled over and emerged from the vehicle, handling his phone as if to make a call. We followed suit and stopped behind him. He must’ve been trying to determine how far our crewman was. At this point I paused a while to take in the scenery: The sky was lit with a dark glowing red with the last vestiges of sunset, which, probably due to the haze, was still somehow bright. A shroud of impenetrable blackness, taking the form of cloudlike plumes, rose above obscuring the heavens. A cluster of Hadeda birds happened to flourish forth over us away into the wilderness. Kula came over, a darkened silhouette with luminous white eyes betraying a hint of anxiety:
“James, there’s a bus burning ahead at those robots.” It then dawned on me that these were not clouds I was seeing but the smoke of buses and tires burning. Kula was on his phone trying to guide our colleague to come to us, since we all agreed not to risk travelling further. We remained there on the roadside as the red glow subsided into blue darkness. Eventually our colleague appeared walking towards us, and within seconds was loaded into Kula’s vehicle. We did a U-turn on the road and proceeded forth, moving to fulfil the next phase of our excursion - we had to drive enter the outskirts of Kaylitcha North, and retrieve the second guard from his neighbourhood. Unanimously we all decided not to break the convoy and would accompany Kula all the way. Initially we struck a freeway that was utterly jammed with traffic, due to vehicles being rerouted from the main highway. It was officially night time, and we carried on weaselling through the density. Little memory I recall of the route; I kept in pursuit, counting on Kula’s knowledge to guide us well, my hand on the wheel the other on the weapon. Skaye seemed quite detached and almost sardonically cheerful. His perfunctory comments alongside were heard and processed, but only remotely in a dreamlike state, as if one does hear something half asleep only slightly registering. He kept commenting on things dismissively in his lazy voice: The traffic, the mission at hand, people seen on the road, general teasing and banter - what could have been thought as words flippant or unprofessional, now in the crisis were like a merciful anodyne.
We were crossing some crucial junction and saw Traffic officers who’d arrived to take over – obviously something was obstructing the highways causing this. Without warning Kula veered off into an unknown road that developed into dense enclosures and many trees. I could see beyond an outline of tightly packed houses, but this area seemed buried more amongst nature than a typical urban zone. If you had ever thought the Township was terrifying during the day, you have yet to see it at night. We were driving slowly at an inconspicuous speed entering a labyrinth of shacks. At some corner several dark shapes gathered round a flame that burnt yellow, underneath some unknown creature suspended via a spit. A group were dancing, whether ritualistic or incidental, I’d never know.
I heard and saw frantic drumming, and beheld female apparitions dancing maniacally in tune. I heard that signature, rapid tremolo high-pitched scream they do, carrying forth through the night. You heard it oft at their wedding days - as is their custom - but out here it was a thousand times more terrifying. No street lamps lit this place; only fires and candles made from pig-fat. The worst was how vividly the candle-lit windows illuminated signs of life inside, glowing with red evil luminance. I saw many things. The only thing stuck in my mind was the tall form of a wizened man staring blankly out, making eye contact with me, with a face beyond all good and evil. Of their voices: the chatter was incongruent. Certainly it was in their native language, and spoke in harmony known to them.
But for me, I was the discord midst their sound; I was the outsider. I was the one left wondering in what fashion this primal force will turn on me if discovered. Of course, in hindsight this was slight paranoia. As we passed the trees and dense shrubbery the night creatures had begun singing. Whether bird or beetle, their symphony fervent was just as zealous and indifferent. In fact at some point I was convinced some digital alarm had been triggered. I did my window down, just to be sure, but Skaye reproved me. This place is actual real darkness. Not the inconvenient absence of light one discovers when the power’s tripped at home. Beyond these boundaries, Civilization’s light does not follow you… and that light seemed nothing more than one able to press a switch.
Eventually we found the place and accordingly Kula loaded him into the back. With speed unholy we hastened back, finding the off-ramp to the highway. Street lamps and urban light availed itself as the road continued. We surmounted a hill to reach a junction. From this vantage point we saw in the distance, over fences and metal boundaries, some huge inferno on the adjacent road; it was a bus burning. . I was under the impression we’d left the battleground behind, but of course we’d forgot about the previous reports. To my mixed relief and horror I saw the opposite lane utterly clogged with traffic. Thank Grud we not in that!
The roadside was lined sporadically with flashing vehicles, mostly Law enforcement and SAPS. The road was caked with debris and smashed glass, torn tires and stones. We reduced speed accordingly. More vehicles and damage appeared, cars compromised and smashed; some appeared burnt and blackened. Skaye gestured out the window pointing “Look James, look it”. A group of lawmen were standing guard, over a few men handcuffed, face down on the ground, next to several unmoving bodies. It was impossible to discern if they were perps or victims; it all looked non-specific.
We arrived back at the office, and discovered there was issue with me delaying and not returning immediately with the 2 designated men, but I managed to talk my way out of it and justify our paranoia. I went home and retired, getting prepped for the next day.
The next day arose and I carried myself onwards with a sort of dutiful resignation. There was one crumb of comfort midst everything: I was not alone - authority figures bigger than me made the decisions. This thought spared me from grappling blindly to take control Whatever happens, happens…
In the armoury that morning, Allistar came in throwing down a newspaper on the table; the headline read: 2 people killed in taxi riots. At any rate we were geared up and again we would leave in a convoy, taking the same convoluted route bringing us to DC. The strange fog had lifted and I felt a bit lighter. Arriving at length we discovered again the night shift stranded again. This time I volunteered outright to take them. Actually it turned out the African official in charge of the unarmed division was nearby. He was parked by Watergate Mall, which fell upon the boundaries of Mitchells Plain (coloured territory). It was just a matter of getting the guards there. Loading them into the back, Skaye alongside me, I cruised out the gate. Stanley was manning the gate for the Madala had not arrived – he did so usually oft keeping the latter company. Good old Stanley, he never lets us down!
By all appearance if the Township was in Lockdown yesterday, today it was a ghost town. We headed south towards Water Gate, passing a perpendicular junction, where within the scorched black remains of a bus stood. We reached the point outside the mall, seeing the Suzuki parked, we stopped. I greeted the supervisor whom I’d met before yet never caught his name; he took the guys off us. He was dressed in civil garb and unarmed. During the exchange Josè and Johannes began talking urgently over the radio, but we didn’t pay real attention. Skaye and I then headed back down the road and we caught their words: “Yes, I see it, I see it right outside the tyre shop.”
We pulled into the gate nonchalantly, and most the crew stood there, pacing about gesticulating. They cried towards us: “James, you see that? You saw that hey? Some guy they beating up; and loaded him into a Quantum...”
In truth we didn’t see anything and hadn’t acknowledged the dialogue, and perhaps did the episode injustice. Jose bellowed “That guy is now dead. He’s DEAD! they gonna finish him!”
Today I felt it better the crew stick together, not being up for solitude, and encouraged everyone to gather at the Plaza. Everything was closed; not one person or car in sight. It was doubtful that any outright attack would be made upon the Distribution Centre; at any rate the controller had a commanding view through his cameras and would call us if needed. The day became clear with a blue sky but the air was still brisk and chilly. The scene eventuated into us sitting on chairs and crates outside the guard room, shaded by the structure’s shadow, and walled by our Nissans parked horizontally. Davids, that vibrant well-meaning coloured guy was there too, which added a pleasing dynamic to the converse; he always had something interesting say that triggered more interesting stuff. The great thing about guards is that most (not all) can talk endlessly in a manner of powerful soliloquy.
Even in their haphazard brand of English it still sounded good. Mostly it was Stanley, who loved holding the floor, sitting on a chair propped against some vehicle, carrying the talk; recalling stories here and there, rehashing the state of things. Every 25 minutes a plane flew over from the East. The street beyond was basically deserted. But every 40 minutes or so, a Riot Vehicle drove past and discharged a rubber-bullet. It was aimed at anyone visible on the street or simply done to create authoritative noise and intimidation. A few idlers and vagabonds who dared emerge scuttled away when the van appeared. The logic was: anyone outside during this time wants to cause trouble. I managed to take a photo of the Riot vehicle when they stopped outside to talk with us. A female police officer was amongst their crew. Footage and photos came through numerous WhatsApp sources: A photo of a white child sitting in the backseat of a car, with a bleeding head seen through a smashed window (probably stone throwing). Footage of other encounters, like the police discharging rubber bullets (apparently one of their vehicle depots got bombed).
Then… a clip of an Uber driver who’d had his face slashed open with some kind of blade.
It was at this point, that the threshold of my endurance was breached. That terse description isn’t powerful enough to relay what I saw. It was obviously a machete-blade that'd inflicted it; what the Africans call a panga. The victim was lying down surrounded by emergency staff, but they still took time to capture the injury’s nature. The blade had horizontally sliced his face directly through the nose. At first it seemed unreal like some disembodied rift separating his mouth into something incomprehensive. The sliced space was opening and closing slowly, as plants drift in the wind, but the true horror was the lurid glimpse of his nostrils, which still functioned despite the absent nose. The man had been defaced, mutilated, and the delicate workings of nature carelessly exposed. From some remote place in my mind terrible screams occurred. But these screams were of some lover unknown. It all came down to this question: Would my lover still adore me if a man had reduced me to this?
Would my form as a functionalized man still endure… would I still be a human after this happened to me?
No doubt the man who capably afflicted this, and survived, would emerge triumphant. He’d still be human, still standing. Still a man.
A surge of hatred began to manifest within me, forming a dichotomy of two directives very clear. The first was obvious: that being the recognition of the opposing force - African criminals. I had to stylize them as something that’d entered this world through other means, like the Dark Portal of the Orcs in Warcraft. They were simply marauding beasts, dangerous, terrible, wielding scimitars and deadly weapons. But instead the Dark Portal that generated them was the Township – a place of machinated economical inefficiency. It was a place contrived by the ruling class to create voters and criminals. At this the dichotomy converged onto the second hatred: It was aimed at the system; or more so the people defining it. Those who wrote books, who published newspapers and spoke on TV. All of them were advocating their humanist personalities, trying so hard to Unify Diversity.
It had nothing to do with the difference between an Englishman and an African - a soldier and a warrior. It had everything to do with their brand of equality, rendering everyone equal before the law, and robbing me of the instinctual right to survive. Because the usage of force is still regulated by government. That means the strength and speed you move with, has their bureaucratic power factored into it, and thus being a hinderance thereto. A sickening feel, subtle yet discernible felt in the gut, induced by these humanists who define the law for ‘the greater good’. It was not easy to banish the image of the mutilated Uber Driver from my mind. If anyone here thinks that the African in this land is something savage and below the range of so-called good, you’re mistaken. The truth is their customs long endured before the European arrived with his pocket watch and bible. It is the current strata of politicians and journalists who keep them oppressed and promise them a new persona to channel their violence through. I will tell you now that the African-American is a fabricated invention. There’s no such thing, in any natural form, as the gum chewing, cap wearing, gun wielding gangster – it is a stylized invention unique to this time. And it is through this force of contrived impression that they give him a voice, a political counter-current, and a surly attitude contending oppression. Of course that oppression is never centralized and always changing form, whenever it suits them to brand an enemy they wish to attack publically; using all the labels and buzzwords that encompass it.
Do not think these are empty words. Try listen with a discerning ear to the lyrics of rap music, and how it’s armed with various levels of endorsed violence. No self-respecting adult would endure it and yet… it is everywhere. In malls, in cafes, in restaurants and clubs. It is easy and accessible to arm yourself with it, and create an aura of belligerence with the promise of violence. As a musician, I can tell you it’s impossible to ignore those sounds when I hear it. I can sense the indolent stink of their attitude, verbalized in its exhalation.
Noon arrived with the weather staying the same. Against the blue sky plumes of smoke could be seen in all directions. I did a 360 revolution taking photos all around; 2 choppers were circling far away in an area we believed another Centre was situated. At length a Black Ranger pulled up with 2 men perched on the back looking about like hawks scouting pray; they hailed from the notorious company PPA (Professional Protection alternatives) and were also here to pacify the locals. Somehow their gun produced a noise much louder. They confirmed shops nearby were currently being looted and some razed to the ground. Noon proceeded on and the sun passed its zenith. A group of children had emerged to play on the streets, the only sounds of life within miles it seemed. For the most our zone appeared secure; everything under control. Sitting on the ground against the vehicle in its shade, I deigned to close my eyes for a few minutes unabated - something I almost never did. Hearing the airplane passing above, the distant buzz of choppers, far away explosions and gunshots, and listening to the sober chant of Stanley’s voice, I could grasp with little effort how peaceful war really is.
(photos of that day - 360 degree view - and me standing before the police riot vehicle)
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The day subsided with little event. Word has it that our primary road was free and safe to use. Also, we no longer needed to travel in convoy. It fell upon us to leave early. Under the setting sun we drove back to the office. In the outer fringes of the area, where the township’s boundaries began, civil traffic appeared back to normal. Too normal, for at a traffic light, Skaye noticed a sudden movement to his left "Look, look, check! Check it…" He hissed: A sinewy African delinquent running at incredible speed towards the road, flanked by 3 others, carrying a stone in his hand. He was targeting the car in front of us. Pulling the handbrake I emerged; pointing my weapon I bellowed out "HOI!!!" They were less than a second away from the action of smashing their window, but immediately changed course, as if stopping in slow motion. The itinerary of their retreat was technically in our direction, so as an afterthought, I discharged one bullet at the assailant. I remember the narrative in my mind, though it was only several protracted micro-seconds, I recall everything: "Ok, let's see if this works, no flinching or pouring too much exertion into the shot, take steady aim and unleash it as he's running past. Hopefully I hit him, at any rate, I'll justify this action with fair words later... afterwards."
A bang and a white flash; my weapon perfectly aligned to his torso, but he continued to run disappearing amongst the crowd and structures whence they came. I hastily got back in and continued driving, and then better remarked the target vehicle - it was a marked security car, small and compact. They put on their hazards to acknowledge us, and began pulling over. We stopped a few strides ahead of them. I got out and so did their driver, a tough cheerful average looking white guy. He was rehearsing and miming what happened, communicating not in words but signals and sound effects: a shout, a handgun, a bang, ending it all with his hands clasped together imitating a thankful prayer. I said "yes, of course, don't worry about it. Say... can I take your number. I’m likely going to report this."
He gladly gave it. Looking closer at his car I saw 2 unarmed Africans (guards) in the back. On the road I phoned the boss to report this, and described my shooting as a Warning Shot. He actually said “Good work.” Skaye was fully on board relaying the events; at least not depicting my actions as one ready to kill indiscriminately. Getting back to the office we both wrote corresponding reports of what happened.
A few words need to be said along my instincts over that episode. First of all, you cannot understand the deliberation and speed the perp was running at, and you can't describe the impression felt of its organism when your brain communicates its intent. It is a force and speed that not even the most ambitious businessman can match. And that is exactly it, for while the common man is in a trance-like state of assumption, trusting that the day will go smooth and safe, suddenly out of nowhere comes an ambush in the form of smashed windows and maimed flesh. This brings us, once again, to the issue of Equality conferred upon Society. The system makes the promise, to drag all perps into a cell, who in turn will be processed via the pipeline of bureaucracy. Society has made this promise to everyone - to process all people equally (Equality before the Law). Every person is assured to have the same amount of paperwork, resource, and man power devoted to reform (or punish) them. But on the playing field, the instincts needed to arrest and forestall the perp are quite different to bureaucracy.
It is more wordless, and filled with hallucinations of eviscerating bellies and smashing skulls in. If you remove the status Society has conferred upon the perp, whose value is defined thereby, the fact remains that realistically he would still kill you without any intrinsic conferred upon him. As we drove off I couldn’t shake a lingering sense of guilt induced. It was the guilt of unprofessionalism; a professionalism lacking self-control. The law says Life must always be conserved and perpetuated, no matter the cost.
When back at the office, I had an issue to address. I’d made a blunder when requesting a day off to do my Code 10 License (heavy duty vehicle). The off day was scheduled for tomorrow but instead needed to announce my arrival, despite being booked off. In truth I thought to laugh off the test since the company had no heavy vehicles. I entered the boss’s office. He was poised over his laptop palms against his eyes. He greeted me warmly; I explained my plight and with off-hand enthusiasm he said:
"Can you work tomorrow?"
"Yes sir" I replied
"Ok great, come in tomorrow ‘cause I'm sure you noticed we are phenomenally f*$#ed at this time."
I walked out giggling, giving the thumbs up gesture to the office staff that it’s sorted.
I went home and while drawing my bath, got a call from Johann. To reiterate, Johann was one of the Tactical staff. Tactical was the word used to label those who worked the neighbourhoods. My other friend explained it was more a marketing ploy, to depict them as highly competent men to the Upper Class who hired them. Nonetheless over the phone he asked if I was able to drive him to Paarl tomorrow, because his Truck needed repairs (what he really meant is HE couldn’t drive). Paarl was a town out of Cape Town's scope about 70km away. I interpreted this as some favour he'd arranged me to do for him, through the auspices of the Boss. I said yes; whatever the outcome, this meant avoiding the Township and doing something new. He mentioned I must arrive at 4:00am, and bring my car. I set my alarm and hence arose that hour arriving on time.
I pulled into the parking lot of the office, something I never did, always being used to the island outside. I expected to see Johann waiting timeously outside, since he called to put some pressure. I instead saw the boss, who caught a hint of the Sonic Mayhem soundtrack playing from my car. Sonic Mayhem did the Soundtrack for the game Quake 2 – the song was called ‘Descent into Cerebron’. Parking soundly I emerged and he greeted me with a smile difficult to hide; Johann came sauntering out the office, telling me to get my gear and get moving. We were not really different in rank and even though much younger, his longevity bid me to follow him on impulse.
Soon we were in the car and it turned out we were following the Boss to a nearby petrol station. It seemed to be a work-related excursion after all. We arrived at the station and he joined us, saying to Johann “Fill him up with 500 bucks… and swipe the card.” My eyes secretly glinted with that notion. Though it was practically sound, I liked the notion of company resources being pumped into my tank. At good length we were on the road trailing behind the boss, taking the N1 highway in the direction of Paarl. I didn’t ask my partner what was going on and thought I’d find out presently. To describe Johan: he was blonde with a neat boy-scout haircut that looked something like a Russian Aristocrat. His stature was bold, taller than most, wide and strong, just like a perfect rugby player. His eyes were rich-light blue and stared into your soul with an honesty difficult to place. I’d sat beside him before and had long determined he was of that generic type who purports radical topics. The kind of person riddled with theories about the government, outer space, and the planets. Underlying this thought-current was indeed a staunch commitment to Christian Faith, serving as an edifice. In other words all theories resolved back to some profound scripture from the bible, or some stern conviction lifted thereof. But in terms of work he was utterly devoted and seemed slightly addicted; I actually looked closer at him noticing he had slight rings around his eyes.
So we were on the road: During the excitement of our topic (some demonic tomb he believed to be buried under the sea housing latent powers) he fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. I stopped him before he lit it, letting him know there was a limit to how much he could smoke inside my car, and the window must be fully open. We reached the off-ramp and entered the town; the hour was still utterly dark with no hint of sun. The first location we reached was a shopping centre. When we got out the car I immediately saw on the roof a silhouette hiding behind the structure. I pointed it out and my boss and Johann ascended to check it out. They discovered it was the night security hiding from us, not knowing who we were during the current crisis, they had scampered upstairs. It was then Johann officially announced we’d been contracted by ShopRite to protect them, for the remainder of the current scenario. Apparently other security companies had simply failed, allowing some stores to be looted and razed. But the present site was not where we’d be stationed for
the day. We returned to our vehicles moving on. We reached a slightly more upbeat area, hosting another ShopRite. The morning light steadily appeared as a dome of blue forming in the East. In the parking lot we met other vehicles and men. It seemed to be a contingent we were about to relieve from night shift, and other men arriving amongst us who’d replace them.
They were all free-lancers. And as usual radiated a class and credibility a cut above the usual grunt. These men were, mostly white. Only 2 coloureds featured amongst them. It is unavoidable that such profiles are drawn up when describing people. You will never know your men and their capacities without generalizing in regards to their origin strata. All land and people have a unique history, and a genetic (or memetic) character shaped by that history. These men perhaps came from the ilk of former-South Africa, sensed from their age and garb. By that I mean they didn’t wear digital watches monitoring their heart-beat, or betray proclivity for artisanal bread. The one guy, who turned out to be quite personable, and purported strong command of English, left a daunting first impression on me. He was in his late 50s I suppose and had short, greyish, neat hair. His glasses however framed him in a cold light of calculated measure – as if he was capable of sudden, quick, deadly movements. But above all everything from his dress and demeanour radiated Sanity. A currency that one finds rarely these days, even midst the Public Square.
Usually I withdrew into the background, lurking in the darkness like some bumbling subordinate on standby that’s called upon to fulfil a task. When I did stand resolute amongst the group I always brought up relatable small talk; some piece of relevant news that might’ve been heard of. My attention however was utterly hi-jacked by the boss’s words. He was describing what’d gone wrong with the previous ShopRites. What was said need not be elaborated, only that 2 thoughts were recurring to me: Where am I going to park my car so it’s safe from the mob? Are we going to run out of ammo while gunning down this storm?
Maybe this was getting carried away. But what happened recently matched the criteria of my fears. We’d been given 2 vehicles. They suggested I park my personal car close to the structure, near the ATMs. The one Silver Ford Ranger was given to me, Johann and some burly coloured guy. While the other 3 guys took the White Toyota. The others had arrived in their own personal vehicles too; I even heard the boss offering his card to fill their tanks up with no remission. Johann was on top the Ranger’s surface with the Firearms ledger, scribbling down names and assigning firearms. This was one of the rare occasions I was issued a rifle. I received it along with the Glock. Upon the front of my armour I had one handgun mag, along with 2 rifle mags. There was something disarming about the rifle. I recall later in the back of the vehicle running my hands over the body embracing its cold metallic lustre. I had performed exceptionally better with the rifle - even better than the handgun – during training. It was something that attested to accuracy and marksmanship (even though the handgun is notably harder). It felt like I had rank above a mere domestic guard – it was a genuine military weapon. Soon enough the boss departed and left us. The sun had begun appearing, rising over the scene. This was Paarl, and to the East a lush array of green mountains rose before the skies. Clusters of forest and lush moors dotted their surface and a cool blue wind carrying pre-Spring drifted lightly over. We retired to the vehicle and it turned out to be quite pleasant. The other White Toyota took to roaming around; probably watching the previous site we’d visited. Inside our Ford, Johann made a reasonable request to catch a light snooze and that we cover him; he would put on a Sylvester Stallone movie on his tablet for me. The coloured gentleman, placed himself in the front seat. He too showed no reluctance to rest. This man’s name I never caught but I found him hilarious. Indeed he was burly and big, well fed and round but not strictly overweight. His facial features were bold and curved with heavy lips and a shaved head. He sat in his combat gear in the front seat nodding off, but would periodically awake and abruptly utter what sounded like a menu order.
He would jolt then say:
“Hamburger and chips”
“Polony Gatsby”
“Mexicano Pizza”
Then nod off back to sleep.
I longed to have that simplicity. I wished that when I slept, that my instinctual pipeline could be satisfied by such easy things - just a few items of consumable goods. As the hour approached 10:00am Johann got some call. He had to travel to somewhere to rally with the boss, since he had the weapons ledger book. The coloured guy volunteered to remain with the other vehicle, which had returned timeously. We left the parking lot and hit the road, Johann driving of course. We travelled along a country lane that passed the open wilderness on our right under the mountain slopes. I saw one or two decorous gates leading to some game lodge, and a wine tasting farm. I must say, this beats the township…
We reached another portion of the town, which apparently was another region altogether. It was far more upmarket than even the previous place. Stopping in the parking lot, we exited and Johann led us to a Wimpy. There, I saw the boss at a table, and at the table next to him, The Big Boss, that is, the real owner of the company. We joined them at the table. I had only met The Big Boss once during the interview before joining. He sat in front of a laptop with a keyboard plugged in, attending to business. Traces of coffee and breakfast lay before him. I did not want to show that I wholly registered the importance of this scene; it felt daunting to be so close to the centre of operations. I turned slightly in my chair and stared blankly elsewhere. It seemed like being in the Eye of the Storm - protected by the warm fact of the Wimpy café itself. For Indeed this was the Commander in Chief; even the Controller addressed him that title when they spoke over the phone. I’d heard them talk several times and it was always so. It turns out another 3 Freelancers were assigned to this specific site thus Johann had to sign out their weapons. After doing that we headed back, taking the same scenic route. Johann happened to be playing his brand of music in the car: The famous Christian group known as Hill Song. I happened to be aware of them and had mapped out their music before. This song in particular was called Mighty to Save, which was based in a Major Key. Musically it was ironic, not the song itself but the context. But was it really so? What other music would accompany lush countryside, associated with wine-tasting farms and rich hotels? A testament to generational wealth and the heritage of a flag planted that claimed land over 200 years ago! Were these places the last corners of South Africa tamed by the gun, not yet assimilated into the collective sludge of the mob? Is this the music of one entitled to heaven, a small taste of things to come? Maybe this is what a conservative feels when they bask in the power of their political exigencies.
Despite the tonal discrepancy, after coming from the coffee house, hearing this triumphant music, and glimpsing the scenery beyond, I couldn’t help feeling that I’m sailing on an aqueous cloud of wealth and power (albeit selective). Though dangerous and often blind to have ones sense subverted by rapture, I allowed happiness to carry me off… on this day I was highly thankful, and appreciated the break from the Township.
THE END
